


For once, I am glad you and I are the same

by aeber



Series: Manifestations [2]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Amnesia, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Fluff, Grima Robin AU?, Horns, M/M, Riding, Robin gets a little possessive later, Wings, i return by my chrobin thirst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-01-05 09:04:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18362870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeber/pseuds/aeber
Summary: Robin reawakens a year after Grima's defeat, wreathed with horns and plagued by wings. It doesn't bother him as much as his lack of memory though. He remembers nothing but Chrom's name and his lips pressed against his own.no context from previous work needed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Here's what I've promised y'all: a sequel, of sorts. help i am such an inefficient writer

Robin shifts his foot on the ground, unsteady. His eyes widen as Chrom tugs him into a crushing embrace and feels warmth in the strong arms holding him.

 

“I missed you.” He murmurs into Robin’s neck. “We’ve missed you.”

 

Robin smiles in return and threads a hand into Chrom’s hair.

 

“I’ve missed you too.”

 

“Welcome back.”

 

The wetness on his shoulder is unmistakeable.

 

“Are you crying?”

 

“…No.”

 

Robin laughs softly as he kisses a tear from Chrom’s cheek. “You insufferable dork.”

 

“I’m your insufferable dork.”

 

“I know.”

 

He leads Robin down the slope, where daylight has broken through the towering clouds to reveal a rocky clearing. A muffled yell sounds from below and Robin sees three figures in the distance sprint towards him, two donning Plegian colours and the other a spitting image of Chrom. He thinks they might be heading for Chrom until they tackle Robin to the ground and he gasps as the wind is knocked out of his lungs.

 

There’s something familiar about them, their names are on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t quite place where. He plunges into his memory yet all he can grasp is cold, suffocating darkness. A wave of déjà vu washes over him at the unpleasant sensation.

 

“-who are you?” He manages to ask, despising how it rolls from his mouth. They’re important to him, he’s sure. He remembers little smatterings of emotions, affection and fondness being among so many of the lingering pieces, it pushes bile to his throat that he can’t recall any concrete memories of them.

 

Uncertainty flickers across their expression of relief before morphing into a mix of fear and horror. The older girl presses a gloved hand to her mouth and releases him from her hug.

 

“You really don’t remember?”

 

He shakes his head.

 

Chrom’s look of concern sends a pang of guilt ricocheting through his chest. He digs through his mind once again to find the same abyssal darkness. When faint sliver of remembrance shines through he reaches out to touch it, flinching, recoiling at the sharp sting of pain slicing through his mind upon contact.

 

He sucks in a sharp breath. Chills run down his spine like electricity and his throat constricts. He staggers as his vision swims with black spots, steadying himself on Chrom’s outstretched arm.

 

Chrom laces his hand into Robin’s and nudges him forward.

 

“Come on. Let’s go home.”

 

-

 

“The Fellblood,” they whisper as Robin enters the castle gates. His wings are hardly hidden under his coat, trailing under them like a dark feathery cape. Smooth, black horns curl around his head in exact mimicry of the fell dragon’s. His eyes, a pale scarlet, scan the guards as they tense in his presence.

 

Chrom walks beside him with reassuring regality. Robin wonders if the reason that he hasn’t been jumped by the castle guards is because of how Chrom’s arm is wrapped around his waist protectively, or how the air steams with crackling electricity when Morgan- Chrom’s son, he reminds himself, asks him to demonstrate a simple lightning spell. Each step is a heavy reminder of what he’s become. He feels numb and overwhelmed by the sheer familiarity of the castle, the stone walls warmed by glowing lamps, the worn path smeared with splotches of dirt, winding down the castle stairs.

 

He dreads reunion. He fears the agony of rejection from a family he doesn’t remember, yet just the act of reaching into his memory fills the pit of his stomach with an unwanted queasiness. Chrom reassures him that it’ll be fine. He doesn’t believe it himself, but hearing it from Chrom settles the uncomfortable knot in his chest if only for a minute.

 

Robin hesitates before pushing open the doors.

 

Almost immediately an unstoppable force rams into him. He’s knocked to the ground once again under the weight of the unmistakeable presence of _dragon_ and he can’t help but let out a soft guffaw at the absurdity of the situation.

 

“You’re finally back!”

 

He does remember her, somewhat. The headful of blond and pale green sparks something in him that screams divine dragon and he ponders if she’s one of the descendants of his kind. She sniffs at him curiously and grabs at his horns.

 

“You smell different. Like family.”

 

“Enough, Nowi. Let them take a break, will you?”

 

Next is a taguel who raises a curious brow as she emerges from behind the door. She gives Robin a once-over with narrow, slit eyes before a small grin breaks from her perpetual frown.

 

“Welcome back. You’ve been sorely missed.” Her grip is tight on Robin’s wrist as she pulls him into the hall, shouting. “Everyone! Robin’s here!”

 

All the heads in the room snap up at once. Robin takes a tentative step back out of sheer instinct, backing up as they crowd around him in bustling excitement. He’s bombarded with people telling him that they thought he was dead, that they were considering a funeral, how much they’ve missed him. The fact that he can’t recognise any of them makes him feel even worse as he tells them to wait.

 

“I’m sorry,” he forces out, swallowing. “I don’t remember. Anyone. Anything.”

 

A moment of silence dawns upon the Shepherds. He takes the time to survey each and every expression of shock, surprise and perhaps, betrayal. A few look towards Chrom behind him.

 

“Is it true?”

 

Chrom nods. “He seems to only remember snippets. Not a thing about the Dragon’s Table.”

 

Murmuring springs from the group. Robin knows some of them as healers and lancers, but their names evade him like morning fog. Some stick out to him in particular, and he pinpoints Chrom’s sister- what was her name again?- at the front of the crowd, clutching a wooden staff tightly.

 

Leaden guilt hangs from his conscience. He searches for an appropriate apology in the awkward mumbling, for once in his life at a loss for words.

 

It ends as a noblewoman steps out from their midst, the tip of her fancy umbrella skittering on the stone floor as she clicks her tongue in annoyance.

 

“Does it matter?” She turns and proffers her hand to Robin. “Maribelle. A pleasure to meet you.”

 

Robin looks at her in faint surprise and smiles. “Likewise.”

 

She gives his hand a firm shake. “You haven’t changed at all.”

 

“I wouldn’t know if I had.”

 

“There you go.”

 

A twin-tailed blonde comes up next in a flurry of energy, hugging him like there’s no tomorrow. Lissa. Then Frederick, in a rare show of warmness, encloses Robin’s hand with both of his, the cold steel of his gauntlets a stark contrast to the gratifying grunt of approval he gives him.

 

Robin comes to know them by a vague collection of static recollections and their brief introductions. Nowi, pouting at that he doesn’t remember her and pawing at his wings with playful banter. Mirielle’s scholarly inquiries to his apparent relapse of amnesia. Sumia’s flustered stuttering as she goes on in detail all that’s happened while he was gone.

 

“One year,” he muses. It feels so much longer than that. His time in the void is a wisp in the wind, punctuated by blank spots of utter silence. It’s scary how much he feels at ease among of all these strangers as though he has spent his entire life with them. Or perhaps he has, but he doesn’t remember.

 

All he remembers is Chrom.

 

And even that is hazy. Either it’s faded to a dull nothing, or the events are sculpted in excruciating detail, colours saturated to painful vibrancy. It’s a little creepy, he thinks, stalker-ish perhaps, that Chrom’s become the one constant in his life. As if they’re bound by fate.

 

He shakes the thought out of his head.

 

He finds out later that Chrom had sent a runner back to Ylisstol to prepare a banquet in advance to his arrival. His cheeks burn hotly when he sees the platters of food laid on the table, and of course, his stomach has to growl at the exact moment he enters the hall. Chrom chuckles to his absolute embarrassment, ushering him to sit at the end of the enormous table.

 

There’s no decorum at the feast. Chrom starts it off with a hearty toast of, not glasses of champagne but wooden mugs of rich ale frothing over the rim. The halls fill with laughter and the clamour of insistent jostling over the skewers of meat. It’s reminiscent of something Robin can’t place, a suggestion of snow and drawn steel.

 

Robin eats till he wants to throw up. He didn’t know he was this hungry before he started scarfing down whatever he saw in front of him. Chrom watches him, his head propped on an arm, smiling fondly. Robin notices, because why wouldn’t he, he’s been secretly stealing glances whenever possible, and blames the heated blush on his face on the alcohol.

 

To his credit, Chrom doesn’t get drunk. As night encroaches he brings Robin to his room, though as he grips the doorknob he suddenly stops.

 

“Oh.”

 

Robin snorts. “Forgot something?”

 

“I haven’t had it cleaned since you were gone.’

 

Robin cocks an eyebrow and pushes the door open.

 

Dust is everywhere. Piled on the desk, on the sheets, a thick mass on the floor. Some of it kicks up as Robin steps in, forming puffs of dreary grey under lamplight. It smells of paper and mould, the paint cracked from sunlight on one of the walls.

 

“...Did you never air it out?”

 

“I- uh, didn’t let anyone in.”

 

“Didn’t take you for the sentimental type,” he teases as he wipes a finger off the damp wood. “Did you miss me this much?”

 

He looks away. “Maybe?”

 

Robin laughs. “Anyways, I’ll have to settle for the guest rooms. I’m sure you have some spares, right?”

 

“About that,” Chrom fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “They’re under renovations. We’ve relocated to the western wing.”

 

“And how far is that?”

 

“At the other side of the castle.”

 

“That’s- I’m convinced the gods hate me.”

 

“We could,” he says carefully, “share my room.”

 

Robin quirks his lips. “Are you offering to share your bed?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“It feels like we’ve done this before.”

 

Chrom walks further down the corridor to unlock his quarters. _That’s because we have,_ he wants to say but stays his tongue.

 

“We’re here.”

 

His room is as spacious as it is comfortable. It’s obviously lived-in, the desk untouched by the maids among the immaculate sheets and tidied shelves. Robin settles on the bed without thinking and yawns, only realizing he’s fallen asleep when Chrom gently prods him to use the bath. He slots his wings into the massive tub with little difficulty and struggles to stay awake as he scrubs the grime out of his hair.

 

“I’ll have to borrow your clothes,” Chrom hears him yell. “I hope you don’t mind.”

 

When he walks out Chrom has to fight down the urge to kiss him right then and there. The oversized shirt hangs off his slender frame, his wings limp behind him since he can’t fold them underneath his clothes. Ignoring Chrom in favour of the bed, he flops onto the sheets, groaning.

 

“Good night. I don’t think I can stay conscious for any longer.”

 

“Sweet dreams.”

 

Robin hums in agreement before rolling over to the second pillow. He’s fast asleep by the time Chrom finishes with his bath, not even bothering with the covers as he’s slept on them. Chrom etches the sight into memory and pulls the quilt from under him to tuck it around his shoulders, worming himself into bed.

 

He inevitably replays the events of the day in his head. Maribelle’s right, he eventually thinks. It doesn’t matter.

 

All that matters is that Robin’s here with him now.

 

-

 

Chrom wakes to a sudden shiver down his spine. He blinks, hyperaware of his surroundings, adjusting to the darkness around him.

 

Then he feels the heat brushing against his sides, straddling him with liquid movements. He shifts, sitting up, facing the moonlight streaming in from the open window.

 

Robin’s wings furl behind him, sleek, black feathers trailing onto the ground. His lithe figure is perfect under the pale dappling of starlight. Hair, white as snow, flittering in the breeze. A hand pressed against Chrom’s bare torso.

 

Chrom’s breath hitches as the clouds pass over the moon. He sees it, the blood red of his drifting gaze, bright in the shifting shadows.

 

“Chrom,” Robin murmurs, but it’s not him. His voice is velvety, spoken heavy with interest.

 

“-How I’ve waited for this.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha what is this premise I can't write good things out of writer's block, hhhh i have 0 planning skills should i even continue
> 
> anyways I started playing granblue and i Couldn't Stop so that's what made this so overdue. will sleep now it's 4 am
> 
> also people who came from manifestations: thank you?? holy shit?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> late(ish) update because Real Life Responsibilites (actually no i was just napping a lot i am literally tiki irl) and updates may come a little late in the coming week because exams and projects? I'll try my best though! 
> 
> also i promised that i wouldn't be so thirsty to someone but i ended up succumbing. Sorry!

“-Robin?”

 

Chrom presses himself against the headboard. He tenses as Robin draws closer, his eyes a luminescent, sanguine hue.

 

“ _Robin._ ” He rolls the name on his tongue, almost savouring how it sounds. “If that’s what you’ll call me. I like it.”

 

Chrom’s mind is reeling from all of this. He doesn’t recognise the lilt in Robin’s voice, the natural shifting of his wings, nor the seductive slide of his fingers on the slope of Chrom’s neck. His shirt is loose on Robin’s body, half-unbuttoned.

 

“You’re not him.” Chrom’s stomach turns at the thought. “You’re… Grima.”

 

Robin ruminates contemplatively. “An ancient name. I remember. It was what they gave me. A thing to worship.”

 

His throat tightens at the confirmation. “Your memories. They’re back?”

 

“I’ve never forgotten.” His hand trails further up, ghosting upon Chrom’s cheek. “A thousand years of darkness. A thousand years more. But you,” he leans into his shoulder, “were the first. My only light. My love.”

 

Paralysation runs numb in Chrom’s limbs as Robin kisses him, slow and sweet. His tongue slides into Chrom’s mouth with unknowing ease. He moves with a simmering passion, cradling his head possessively as he drowns himself in his lips. His touch. Every roll of his hips against Chrom’s, parting only for air, the heat on his skin burning.

 

He knows it isn’t right. But somehow, he can’t bring himself to tell him to stop. Just the wetness of Robin’s mouth on his skin elicits a shameful groan on his part, the slight contact of his thigh against his crotch has him gasping for air.

 

“I don’t-”

 

As if he’s read his thoughts, he murmurs. “There was never a distinction between us. The mortal mind simply can't handle the pain of remembrance.”

 

“Then,” he whispers, “why me?”

 

“A year of darkness is unfathomable to the human consciousness. It is a fate worse than death. You were his anchor to reality. His only hope.”

 

For a split second, suffocating darkness flickers across Chrom’s mind. He flinches as the smothering veil dissipates, wincing from the sensation. Robin lifts his palm from Chrom’s chest. Pained recollection flashes briefly across his face.

 

“It was why I fell.”

 

Chrom falls silent for a moment.

 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

 

“Fool. You weren’t even born then.”

 

“I’ll never let you experience that pain again.” He grasps his hand. “Never.”

 

Robin laughs. It’s a pleasant sound that rings clear in the room. He could listen to his voice for the rest of his life, Chrom thinks.

 

“I’ll hold you onto that.”

 

“Mmm.”

 

This time it’s Chrom that lock their lips together. He chases after Robin aggressively, nearly knocking him down onto the bed as he kisses him in desperation. It’s been a whole year of neglect, after all. A taste of heaven has left him wanting, shuddering whenever Robin reciprocates with a heavy grind into his arousal. He holds back a wanton moan as Robin mouths at his nipples and suckles on them, his cock hard and straining against his nightclothes to the agonising lack of friction.

 

He reaches to touch himself, but Robin pins his hands above his head in a surprising show of strength. “Let me,” he breathes. His voice goes straight to Chrom’s groin and he shivers at Robin’s fingers digging into his inner thighs, parting his legs as he dips his head to nip at the tender flesh. He looks up, smirks, pushes his smallclothes further down and licks a thin strip up to the base of his cock.

 

Chrom comes without warning, embarrassingly, untouched. He rides his orgasm in unthinking bliss, pleasure coursing through his veins, and when he regains his hazy consciousness he sees the mortifying amount of mess on his chest and flushes scarlet down to his neck.

 

“Oh- I- uh- it’s been so long-”

  
He’s interrupted by Robin taking his entire length into his mouth. It hardly takes seconds for him to be hard again under the sheer, sopping heat of his tongue flat against his shaft, blunt nails squeezing his sensitive flesh as he bobs his head to swallow him whole. Chrom inhales sharply, resisting the urge to buck into his swollen lips as he feels Robin’s throat constrict around him. With one last suck he draws his head back with a slick pop and crawls up to rub his own erection against Chrom’s, precum dripping down the head.

 

He leaves Chrom in favour for the nightstand, though. Chrom blanches as he returns with a vial of oil, already pouring a generous volume over his fingers.

 

“Can’t believe you kept it,” Robin states nonchalantly as he reaches behind him. “Didn’t Lissa gift you this on your birthday?”

 

He somehow manages to nod mutely as he watches Robin insert the second finger, then sliding in the third and straddling him once more. He wraps his hands around Chrom’s length to coat it in oil and slowly, sinks down to the hilt. All Chrom can think of is how tight Robin is around him, his velvety walls encasing his cock with an incredible hotness.

 

He moves after several seconds. Each action is deliberate in dragging himself against Chrom’s cock, his pace unbearably slow. His own arousal leaks over his stomach as he picks up the rhythm to impale himself on his length over and over again, angling himself so that it pounds against his prostrate every time. Chrom ruts against him in shameless abandon, Robin’s name in every groan of exhilaration. With loving fervour he clutches at him, threads his hands into the feathers on his back and thrusts upwards in tandem to the dance of Robin’s hips.

 

He’s close. Robin crashes his lips into his again, this time with teeth and tongue, biting and sucking in alternation as he whimpers and moans. With a final thrust and a cry dead on his lips they come together, spasming as white hot ecstasy pours itself down their limbs. He can feel Chrom’s cum in him, filling him up as he pulls out and dropping onto him like dead weight.

 

He continues kiss him through the hypersensitivity of orgasm, peppering love bites down his neck to his sternum, cum dribbling down his thigh. Chrom simply runs his hand though Robin’s hair lazily, sleep threatening to overtake him in his tiredness.

 

The moonlight fades as the night wears on, yet still glowing on Robin’s skin. He presses a final kiss on his jaw and rolls over to drape one of his wings over Chrom’s nakedness. Drifting between sleep and wakefulness Chrom slings an arm over Robin’s waist and nuzzles into his hair, satisfied.

 

He’s still awake when Robin shifts to face him. Before he’s fully asleep he groggily mumbles.

 

“I love you.”

 

Robin snuggles further into his warmth.

 

“I know.”

 

-

 

Morning breaks when Robin wakes to a rude column of harsh sunlight glaring in between the curtains. He tries to move but realizes he can’t tug his limbs away from whatever’s holding him. He does feel good, though. Like the euphoric aftermath of a pleasant dream.

 

His eyes adjust to the new light. It’s familiar. The brocade curtains are of white and gold and the worn desk has black quill on it, uncapped and laying strewn on the wood over several documents. Immediately he feels a wave of annoyance at himself for allowing the ink to dry on the nib but it dawns on him quickly that he would never do such a thing. There’s a reason why it’s so familiar.

 

It’s Chrom’s room.

 

He sits up in panic. He’s forgotten to fold up his wings, so they hit several obstacles as he turns and yet another wave of irritation washes over him. It brings his attention to the massive bed he’s in and the very naked Chrom shifting drowsily next to him, still clinging onto his arm and a leg hugging his waist.

 

No. No, no no no no, no no no.

 

He throws off what little covers he has on him and sure enough, he’s completely naked. He tries shuffling across the bed and the bolt of pain that shoots up his spine further proves a point he doesn't want to admit. He’s too scared to shake Chrom off so he stays completely still, filing through his options. At some point he even considers going back to sleep.

 

He hears Chrom sniff and yawn. The leg on him recedes and Chrom opens his eyes.

 

“Hhmmph. Good morning.”

 

“Chrom.” He looks him dead in the eye. “Did we have sex?”

 

“Um.” He stares at him quizzically. “Yes?”

 

Robin blinks. “Oh. Oh no.”

 

Chrom yawns once more and kicks off the covers. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them, drawing a deep breath.

 

“Robin. Do you remember what happened last night?”

 

His blushing is apparent in the daylight. “I- I thought it was a dream.”

 

“Did you not want to?”

 

“…No.”

 

“Then it’s fine, isn’t it?”

 

Robin opens his mouth in objection, stutters, and falls back onto the sheets in defeat. He pulls the covers over himself dejectedly and yells into the pillow.

 

“Come on, let’s get up for the day.”

 

“I don’t think I can look at you anymore.” His voice is muffled from under the covers. “Just let me die in peace.”

 

Chrom lifts the blanket from his head and brushes aside one of his wings. “Can you walk?”

 

It turns out that he can, but with an obvious limp. Chrom throws him a set of clean clothes from his closet and dresses himself distractedly. He narrowly avoids the maids as they walk to the breakfast hall, Robin wobbling on Chrom’s arm.

 

“Good morning.”

 

Frederick returns the greetings, Lucina smiles at them, Morrigan coughs into her fist while Morgan glares at her. Lissa is staring at the table with her head resting on clasped hands.

 

Chrom sits down, unaware. Lucina takes her fork and picks at her eggs.

 

“So. Are we going to talk about it, or no?”

 

“That is quite the impressive necklace, milord.”

 

Lissa looks up.

 

“You don’t know my pain. My room is next door.”

 

Robin groans, eartips burning.

 

“I knew I shouldn’t have gone down to breakfast with you.”

 

-

 

Chrom wants to take the day off to spend it with him. Robin insists that he shouldn’t and accompanies him down to the borders.

 

Riding is a lot less taxing than walking, Robin declares, and immediately regrets it when his thighs ache with blistering soreness as he saddles his mount. Chrom chuckles at the expense of Robin knocking him over with a well aimed blow of his wing and the stable hands look on incredulously as the exalt apologises, covered with dirt.

 

He notes that Chrom’s gotten a lot better at riding. Chrom brightens and looks ahead wistfully.

 

“I had a lot of practice.”

 

“Can’t believe you’d spend something time on something other than swinging your sword around.”

 

“I used to look for you every day until they banned me from the stables. I might have killed a few horses trying.”

 

“You know I could have found my way to Ylisstol, right?”

 

“I wanted to be there when you woke up.”

 

“Sappy,” he points out. “What a sap.”

 

There are a million things Robin wants to ask Chrom. Ylisse, Plegia. The Shepherds. The documents strewn about on his desk detailing the different policies he’s passed. Anything could have happened in a year, and yet he ends up on Chrom’s children.

 

It’s selfish, and he knows this. What Chrom does is his own business. He has no right to pry into his life decades ago. He doesn’t even know Chrom’s age. Lucina seems mature enough to be an adult, but her physical youthfulness betrays her age. The Morgans are perhaps several years younger than her, but again, they did wear coats belonging to the Grimleal when he first saw them.

 

Chrom visibly winces when Robin finally circles to the topic. But not for the reasons Robin would expect. He claims that they came from the future, where Chrom supposedly married a woman and the world had fallen into ruin by Grima’s hands. Robin then asks who he had married.

 

“You.” He pauses to fight down the lump in his throat. “I’d married a female version of you, they said. I don’t know how it happened. I guess it does make sense, in a way? Maybe we are bound by fate.”

 

It reassures Robin in a manner that makes him a little sick with himself. He is curious, though.

 

“Who’s Grima?”

 

The look of shock that Chrom gives him is priceless. “You really don’t remember?”

 

The news that he’s apparently a vessel of a fallen dragon god is unexpected. The wings and horns to him feel as natural as his limbs, and he doesn’t feel ashamed of them in public. Well, it does explain the reactions towards him by townsfolk and the castle staff, and Robin isn’t about to blame them for avoiding the wrath of destruction incarnate.

 

They arrive at a village in the outskirts before noon. Immediately, Robin is assaulted with the stench of death. He sees no corpses, no broken bodies laid in a bloody pile. The village looks perfectly normal, the residents weaving in and out of streets in extremely mundane fashion.

 

He tugs at Chrom’s sleeve. “There’s something wrong here.”

 

“Really? I see nothing out of the ordinary.”

 

Chrom’s presence is a shining globe that demands attention. The children all run to their parents shouting for the exalt, some excitedly exclaiming about how he’s enslaved a demon from Plegia. Chrom gives Robin an apologetic smile and moves to greet the village chief.

 

The chief is close to fainting in Robin’s intimidating presence. Chrom assures him that Robin is of no danger to his family and village, and asks him to show the place of the infected. With a wary eye placed on Robin he brings them to the farthest row of houses from the gates.

 

Before they even get to go inside, a woman flings herself towards Chrom and begs, grovelling into the ground. Her husband and sons are dying of a mysterious plague that has only afflicted those who worked in the west fields.

 

Robin frowns. He demands to see the fields. The chief declines for a feral beast to be let into his land.

 

“Then, will you at least let me see the patients?”

 

“If you plan to devour—”

 

“Please! How many of us have died? Will you take away our only hope?”

 

It’s not a plague, Robin recognises as he steps into the hut. It’s a burbling, widespread hex that’s slowly leeching the life out of everyone infected. An ugly purple bruise proliferates over the patients’ skin, worming its way over to their heart.

 

He walks up to the woman’s husband and hovers his gloved hand over him.

 

The hut is filled with piercing cold. Darkness swathes around him, the air thrums with energy. The floor around him freezes with a thin layer of ice. Nobody says a word as he lowers his arm and the bruise is gone. The man blinks awake, sits up, and gets out of the bed in disbelief.

 

He turns to the chief. “Will you let me inspect the fields now?”

 

The crops have all wilted and crumbled. The water is clear but the soil is arid. Not the conventional curse, he thinks as he kneels onto the dry dirt, readying the spell. Oh well.

 

He staggers. The world spins around him, and he finds himself steadied by Chrom’s arms.

 

“Hey, take it easy. You’ve done a good job.”

 

Robin waits for the nausea to pass. “…Bet you weren’t expecting me to help.”

 

“I’m glad I have such a brilliant, talente-”

 

He mushes his fingers against Chrom’s open mouth. “Shut up.”

 

The land is healed. It fills him with satisfaction that he’s able to do something besides strategize for war and join in battle, but he’s not quite finished.

 

In the distance, Robin sees, a writhing plague recoiling into foreign grounds.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just ate an orange with the peel absentmindedly I feel like chrom is rubbing off me bleugh tastes disgusting
> 
> 3 am updates: sorry there is no quality whatsoever to this chapter, I'll maybe edit this or I'll make up for it next chap. fu i have school tomorrow time to die


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello sorry for slow updates, am writing this in the middle of test week, haha it's 1 am thank you for bearing with my terrible writing

Robin paces about his room, restless. His wings trail on the carpeted floor, sinking into the soft velvet, leaving stray feathers everywhere. He’s too distracted to care, hands crossed as he squeezes his eyes shut and thinks.

 

His memories are a mess. He’d woken up gasping for air, to the scent and texture of fresh blood clinging to his skin. The sharp whinging of steel sliding against steel echoes and stings like a festering wound. He remembers blasts of fire and lightning and the stone cold numbness that frosts his limbs after a round of exhausting spellcasting.

 

He had looked in the mirror right after. His reflection is something familiar but foreign at the same time. He sometimes bites the insides of his mouth on accident, for one. He’s sure that his sharpened canines aren’t typical for humans. He doesn’t recognise his own red irises nor the two heavy weights on either side of his head. They weren’t there before. He was human. Used to be.

 

The more he remembers, the less sure he is about himself.

 

Perhaps he does wake up with the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. The sight of twitching bodies strewn across the battlefield. He can’t stomach it, all the death and gore, but at the same time a sick part of him relishes the thought. The compulsion to destroy thrums dormant in his blood.

 

He grips the edge of the sink to steady himself. He stares at his reflection, and his reflection stares back at him.

 

What are you?

 

-

 

He finds Frederick in the morning for permission to access the royal records. Apparently, he doesn’t need it, since he’d been granted the keys two years prior. Indeed, his name is written in the ledgers and the scribe flinches in surprise as Robin lowers his hood and promises that he won’t destroy any of the shelves.

 

It’s unexpected when the scribe laughs and tells him that he doesn’t mind the whole dragon thing. He shows Robin the records from the years before and smoothes them out onto the table. The indecipherable scrawl is unmistakeable. It’s his own handwriting.

 

Next to that is Chrom’s equally messy chicken scratch. His heart warms at how Chrom’s writes around his words, a finger’s width of berth from his notes. He’s about to dismiss the scribe when he notices the tight fist his hand has curled up to.

 

“It’s good to have you back,” the scribe says, trailing off.

 

It strikes Robin that he probably knows him. “You just arrived in Ylisstol, didn’t you? Were you visiting family?”

 

“Huh?”

  
He smiles. “I don’t remember a lot, but you were in the Shepherds, right? What’s your name?”

 

“I- It’s Ricken.”

 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but have you grown taller?”

 

Ricken’s eyes widen. The stack he was holding drops onto the table, and Robin swears he sees tears in his eyes before he stutters and turns away.

 

-

 

For the next few days Robin busies himself by relearning world history and Ylissean politics. He rediscovers chess, courtesy of Chrom accidentally knocking over the chessboard that he thought was ornamental in his room. He finds himself annoyed as he barely loses to Chrom.

 

“Ugh. I’ve become rusty.”

 

“Or maybe I’ve become better at it?” Chrom suggests.

 

“Have you been secretly practicing?”

 

“Hmm, not really. Just been playing with the Morgans for the last year or so.”

 

“That’s cheating!”

 

Chrom laughs and rearranges the pieces. “One more time?”

 

It’s always from evening to dusk that Chrom visits him. Or Robin visiting Chrom. He’s too afraid to intrude upon his exalt duties during the day. It’s a constant distraction, thinking what Chrom is doing while he’s catching up on the times. There are nights when Chrom just walks into his room and sits in silence, leaning onto Robin eventually as Robin combs a hand through his jet blue hair.

 

Once, he’d fallen asleep on his lap. Robin had remained stationary for the rest of the night, opting to read a book until he himself fell asleep against the wall. He had cramps all over his shoulders afterwards, but he’d never forget Chrom’s weight against his.

 

Another night Robin spies Chrom lugging himself back into his quarters and hurries to the pantry to grab a bottle of wine. Chrom glances up tiredly at Robin’s entrance, visibly brightening in his presence.

 

“Want to talk about it?” He swirls the bottle. “We have all night.”

 

Chrom locates the wine glasses from one of the cupboards and sighs. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

 

“I’d say you handled yourself pretty well in my absence.”

 

“It was awful.”

 

“I can tell.” Robin pours him a glass. “The council again?”

 

“Yeah. Word’s gotten around, and they want you out of the castle.”

 

“Is it the wings, or is it the horns?”

 

“Actually, it was the maids.”

 

Robin almost chokes.

 

“They want me to marry as soon as possible. There’s been invitations from the princess of Valm and the current queen of Plegia. I’ve banned them from discussing it during our meetings, though. The documents have been mysteriously appearing on my desk. Instead they’re pushing me for a royal advisor. So that they can put one of their pawns on the throne.”

 

“You still don’t have one?”

 

Chrom chuckles dryly. “There was none as capable as you were.”

 

“Hmm. You didn’t even try finding one, did you?”

 

“I’ve been called out.” He takes a sip from his glass. “Gods, this thing tastes awful.”

 

“Like piss?”

 

“Like piss.”

 

He laughs. “It was either this or crummy beer.”

 

“I’d take the beer any other day.”

 

“No taste for royal alcohol?”

 

“Eugh. You don’t know how many noble parties serve this stuff. Tastes the same for me. Never had the palate for fancy wine.” He downs the rest of the glass and stands up. “Wait. I have some whiskey stashed somewhere.”

 

“Hey, watch it. Frederick’s going to kill me if you have a hangover tomorrow.”

 

“Too late.” He slides an unlabelled bottle from the bookcase, popping the cork off and sloshing it into their glasses. “Seems a little mismatched with the wine glass, to be honest.”

 

Robin clinks his against Chrom’s. “Cheers.”

 

“If I said I wanted to name you my royal consort, would you want to?”

 

He freezes mid-swallow. The liquor burns the roof of Robin’s mouth.

 

“Chrom-”

 

Chrom closes his eyes and hums to himself. “Maybe.” He yawns. “One day.”

 

“...”

 

“I love you, Robin. Please don’t leave me again.”

 

“Chrom, go to sleep.”

 

“Will you stay?”

 

He plucks the empty glass from Chrom’s hands. “Yes. Now shut up and sleep.”

 

“Mmm. Always so kind.”

 

Robin nudges him gently onto the sheets and pulls the covers over him. “Good night.”

 

He’s already fast asleep. Robin gets up to place the glasses back on the desk, but Chrom’s hugging his arm. He ends up placing them on the nightstand and kissing Chrom’s forehead.

 

“I love you, too.”

 

That night, Robin’s dreams are filled with memories of late nights and warmth.

 

-

 

Chrom is closing the door right as Robin drags his groggy self out of bed. He sees Frederick disappear from the doorway and rubs his eyes wearily.

 

“Huh?”

 

“I want to bring you to the council.”

 

“Eh?” He sits up, stretching. “When?”

 

“Today. An hour later.”

 

Robin jolts completely awake. “What? Wait. I can’t just waltz in, can I? There’s going to be- rumours- and then there’s,” he gestures to himself, “you know.”

 

“I’ll make sure they don’t care.”

 

Robin scrambles off the bed in haste. He looks like a mess, hair sticking up and eyes still puffy from sleep. A quick shower later he dries himself with a simple fire spell and shrugs into the pile of his freshly laundered clothes. He borrows Chrom’s hairbrush to get any ruffled feathers into place and slams the bathroom door open.

 

“You could have told me sooner!”

 

Chrom pivots from his wardrobe. “Sorry.”

 

Robin yelps a bit when Chrom steps on one of his tail feathers. Besides that, the short trek to the meeting hall is uneventful, the room itself filled with idle murmuring that can be heard from the corridor.

 

It’s silence when Robin strides in. He sits himself next to Chrom and shifts his wings into place on the chair.

 

No formalities. Abruptly, “I hereby name Robin my royal advisor. Any objections?”

 

He waits. Nobody speaks up.

 

“If no, I’ll proceed with the policies we were on about yesterday.”

 

A few of them suck in a sharp breath, but otherwise there’s no obvious reaction. Robin finds it unsettling how easily he’s assimilated into court.

 

He catches them discussing among themselves later. He’s too out of earshot to listen in, though there’s only one thing they’d be talking about anyways.

  
A few words he can decipher out of the interested murmuring. Plegia, and Grima. There’s nothing they can do against the exalt at the moment, so Robin ignores them in favour of the pile of notes in front of him.

 

-

 

“I want to bring you to Grima’s Night.”

 

Robin doesn’t put down his quill. “What’s that?”

 

“Festivities. Fireworks. A lot of candy.”

 

“Sounds fun.”

 

Robin only blots the page he was writing on and caps his pen as Chrom pulls the chair from under him. He leans back, a hand gripping the table for support.

 

“Alright, alright. You have my attention. If you say that it’s tonight again, I’ll feed you to the wyverns myself.”

 

Chrom takes a step back sheepishly. “About that.”

 

Robin sighs and pushes off from the desk. “And I assume you want to go now?”

 

“You know me so well.”

 

“Impulsive,” but there’s no bite to it. “I’ll meet you at the gates in a few minutes.”

 

-

 

Dusk falls upon the streets and the lanterns are hung in rows, speckling the darkness with colourful dots of warm luminesce. There are people everywhere wearing items in likeness to a plethora of monsters and creatures, elaborate to the extent that could put Chrom’s armour to shame. Robin finds it intriguing how a majority of children dress up as Grimleal and scares them to their screaming delight with his best imitation of the Fell Dragon.

 

It’s spring, but the night hasn’t thawed yet. Robin huddles in his coat, buried in a scarf and huffing as Chrom gets ‘mistaken’ for the exalt. The stallholders compliment how realistic his wings are and Robin thanks them, ears burning, to Chrom’s amusement.

 

“Robin, do you thi-”

 

Robin turns, and he stops. Bright scarlet eyes blink back at him and he tilts his head at Chrom.

 

“Oh,” Chrom says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

 

Robin laughs, his voice a vivid melody.

 

“It _i_ s called _Grima’s Night_ for a reason.” He grins as he skips forward, hands shoved in his coat pockets. “Strange that Ylisseans still celebrate it. I feel _alive_.”

 

His eyes seem to glow in the dim contrast of the hanging lanterns, hair white as the first light of dawn. Power radiates off him in the form of lingering sparks whenever his fingers ghost on Chrom’s skin. His gait is feline, wings brushing against Chrom’s back suggestively as he enthusiastically tugs him towards the stalls.

 

“What’s this? It smells wonderful.”

 

“Meat skewers. Would you like one?”

 

“Can I?"

 

He practically eats the skewers out of Chrom’s hand right as he pays for it. He tears the beef from the stick and chews it thoughtfully.

 

“It’s good! I’ve never eaten anything like it.”

 

“There’s more stalls up front. I think you’ll like the sugar-coated strawberries.”

 

He does love the strawberries. Or any food in that regard. He stuffs himself with fried noodles and candied apples, sighing happily as Chrom announces that they’ve probably bought every variety of ice cream available to Ylisse.

 

At the end of it all Chrom brings him to a clearing where the fireworks will be displayed. It’s overly crowded over the lake, where a single boat floats with rows of firework shells lined on its side. The first shell that explodes over the sea sends combs of sparkling gold raining over their heads and Robin stands enamoured by the explosions.

 

As they leave, it’s through a thick drudge of people trying to shoulder their way through a narrow exit. A man runs past them in passing and barrels into Robin’s side. Robin hisses, whips around and grabs the man by the cuff.

 

“You dare touch me?”

 

The man apologises profusely. He isn’t Ylissean, Robin realises too late, as he hears the telltale shriek from the crowd. He releases the man in wild search for Chrom and lets the bolt of energy rip from his hand just in time for the assassin to emerge from the wall of people. Another round of screaming pierces the air, now from man with several spears of ice protruding from below his waist, and Robin walks up to him with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

 

He glowers above him, ancient power dripping from his fingertips.

 

“Robin, no.”

 

Chrom’s unsteady voice is what stops him from driving it in and blasting his dead corpse into smithereens. Robin turns, scanning the rapidly dispersing crowd for the insolent human that had dared to distract him.

 

“He tried to murder you.” He states simply, as the man bleeds and whimpers for mercy.

 

“You don’t need to kill him. The guards are coming.”

 

“He tried to hurt you.” He says again, yanking out an icicle with blood frozen on its tip. “I’ll destroy them, whoever ordered this. I’ll bring ruin upon them and their legacy.”

 

Chrom staggers shakily to Robin’s side and grabs his wrist. “You won’t be able to know who ordered it if you kill him. Stop, for my sake, okay?”

 

Robin looks at the dying man, then back at Chrom. “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He lowers his arm. “If you say so.”

 

Robin crouches and plucks each spear out of the man’s body, one by one, as he screams himself hoarse from the pain. Within seconds his torn flesh knits back together and the man thrashes in fear, babbling.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know who he was, I didn’t-”

 

“Be silent, or I’ll crush your legs again.”

 

“Robin.”

 

The guards arrive in time with swords and spears at the ready, but the assaulter’s already flinging himself to them. Robin watches as they leave and turns to Chrom.

 

“I’d bring destruction to the world if it meant that you’d live.”

 

At that moment, Chrom understands. It was never Robin who had been so ruthless on the battlefield, but it was him all the same. The blind devotion to tactics, his skill in magic. The childish joy in seeing snow for the first time.

 

He and Grima had always been the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ghasdfhjhhf it's one am i should stop this trend of writing in the middle of the night


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY FOR THE LATE UPDATE. i was pretty busy with, you know, Real Life, so i didn't have time to write this all in one go. also i fell really hard and now my right foot is going to be in a brace for 4 weeks, thanks whoever invented heels, if you were alive i'd sue the shit out of you
> 
> hnnnnnggg I'm so sorry

 

Robin swings his legs on Chrom’s bed, almost childishly. He stretches, dipping his toes into air and watching Chrom undress for sleep.

 

“That man was Plegian.” He states simply as Chrom peels his gloves off and drops them off on the dresser. Chrom remains silent as Robin approaches from behind and helps him with his belt, unbuckling it with practiced ease and letting it drop onto the floor.

 

“-But I don’t think it was Plegia that did it.”

 

“…”

 

“Mmm… doesn’t matter. I’ll keep you safe.” He roams to unbutton his tunic, unclasping his cape along the way. “I’ll never let you get hurt again.”

 

Chrom turns. “Listen, I’m sorry.”

 

“Hm?”

 

He holds Robin by his wrist. “For tonight. I didn’t think there’d be someone waiting for me out there.”

 

“I don’t mind. Grima’s Night used to be a lot gruesome than some poorly executed assassination plan. They’d stone a bunch of people to death and burn their corpse as sacrifice to me.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“That’s why Ylisse celebrates it, isn’t it? To coax the fallen out of haunting. Granted, I never ate their souls, but people believe what they want to believe.” He wipes a thumb over Chrom’s jaw. “If I were able to consume every soul offered to me I’d be stronger than all the dragons combined.”

 

“I… wasn’t aware of that.”

 

Robin smirks. “You do surprisingly well in politics for someone who hasn’t paid attention in history class.”

 

Chrom grins. “Does that mean you think I’m a good king?”

 

“I’ll tell you after you bathe.”

 

“You just don’t want to admit it.”

 

Robin ushers him to the door.

 

“I’ll be waiting.”

 

Chrom only laughs as he ducks into the baths.

 

-

 

Robin checks Chrom’s breathing before slowly nudging his covers off. He combs through his hair with his fingers and throws on his coat, quietly unlocking the door and locking it again. He’s gotten the castle mostly memorised, so he takes the servants’ route to the lower floors, nodding at castle staff on his way. They’re used to his presence by now, and they know better than to ask.

 

The path gets significantly less worn at the turn behind the kitchen. The damp soaks into the rich fabric of his coat and he keeps a flame burning for illumination. He hates how clammy his feathers feel as he makes his way down the mossy stairs and unlocks the heavy metal doors without touching them.

 

A few prisoners stir at the commotion. He treads on, his lamplight floating like a vengeful will-o-wisp. The lilac flame whittles out a little as he finds who he was looking for, and extinguishes once the man is startled awake.

 

Robin halts. His eyes are fire in the darkness. The onyx-coloured ivory of his horns glints from the slit of moonlight from the ventilation opening. He closes the iron gate behind him.

 

“I’m sure you know what I’m here for.”

 

The man stays immobile. The shackles aren’t holding him in place, but he makes no attempt to scramble away.

 

The heels of Robin’s boots click on the floor.

 

“I see it’s begun rotting already.”

 

The assassin makes an incomprehensible gurgle.

 

“Start talking.”

 

“The exalt,” he rasps with difficulty, “he killed Him.”

 

“Ah, so it’s one of those religious types. Are you Grimleal?”

 

He splutters on his own dry spit. “It was Him who raised my home… out of the desert… you cannot simply comprehend our devotion.”

 

“In that case,” Robin drawls as he ignites the oil lamps on the wall with a wave of his hand. “Wouldn’t I be your god?”

 

It becomes clear under the sudden brightness. The man shies away from the light and crumples to the ground. The lower part of his body is a stiff, bluish colour, pallid and taut over his bones. Thick, congealed blood clumps around the scrapes and wounds over his feet, still glistening. Veins of wriggling, dead flesh curl up his stomach. As if he’d been sewn together with a corpse’s legs.

 

The man adjusts. He lowers his hand and his eyes widen. In the dim lighting he recoils in rising fear, scrabbling away as Robin approaches, his silhouette more of a demon than a draconic deity.

 

“It- it was real-”

 

“No ‘Lord Grima’? I’m disappointed. You don’t believe in Him, don’t you?”

 

“You know nothing!”

 

“Why don’t we start with the Plegian that shoved me aside.”

 

Robin doesn’t miss the flash of desperation that flickers across his gaze. A disturbing wet crunch later Robin grimaces at the blood pooling out from the man’s mouth as his tongue swells and chokes him, blunt nails scrabbling at his own neck.

 

He waits until the man stops convulsing. Then, he pries the bit-off portion of the tongue out from the bloodied mouth and mumbles a spell.

 

A flat glow slowly returns to the corpse’s eyes. Robin rocks back onto his feet as the man moves his head out of bewilderment. He opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is burbling nonsense.

 

“Good. So you aren’t brain dead yet.”

 

Another gurgle.

 

“You thought I was healing you? What a joke. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t have been able to do so.”

 

The man flails frantically on the cold, damp stone. Robin plants a firm kick to his chest, knocking him onto the floor.

 

“Now, now, are you going to put up a fight, or are we going to do this all night long?”

 

-

 

It’s noontime, when Robin is struggling with getting accustomed to his royal advisor duties that a scribe hastily barges in and tells him to go to the gates. He’s provided with no further information upon questioning but he drops what he’s doing all the same and makes quick work of getting to the castle walls.

 

Chrom’s presence at his arrival is unexpected, without all the regal garb and armour. There’s a horse with a saddle he’s not familiar with led by the stable hands, yet he recognises the wornness of it all the same. It doesn’t take a search to find what he’s looking for because Lucina is already rushing towards Chrom, sword still hanging by her belt and hair tied up for riding purposes.

 

“Father, you’re alright!”

 

She nearly sobs into his shirt as Chrom reassures her that he’s fine. No, he didn’t actually get stabbed, contrary to the rumours.

 

“You should probably be more worried about the assassin first, since he’s now rotting in prison.”

 

He doesn’t really know why, but Robin swallows guiltily.

 

“-All thanks to Robin.”

 

“Thank Naga,” Lucina sighs, as she takes a step away. She licks her lips in hesitation. “And thank you…Robin.”

 

“It’s alright. He knows now.”

 

“You remember?”

 

“Not a lot.”

 

Lucina smiles, hopeful. “I’ll look forward to the day you do, papa.”

 

“Thank you, Luci.”

 

Perhaps a shadow of doubt passes her expression. Robin’s not sure. He notices the way Chrom brightens in her presence, and the streak of white hair that hangs loose in her ponytail. Like father, like daughter, he muses. The sword she’s wearing reminds him of a memory  decades ago, a pulsating scar that he can’t quite place where he’d gotten it in the first place.

 

He lingers for a while, watching them go, and wishes that he could one day walk by her other side.

 

The evening that follows is a marbling of colours behind sun-dyed clouds. Even after decades, it never fails to distract Chrom from his work, the glorious hues of daytime fading into naught as night falls. He almost misses the soft knock on his door and calls for them to come in.

 

Lucina toes the door open, awkwardly holding a platter of porcelain cups and a heavy pot of tea.

 

Chrom cocks a curious eyebrow. “Good evening?”

 

“I was thinking what I could do for you now that I’m back.”

 

He receives the platter from unsteady hands, suppressing the urge to chuckle, and pours each of them a cup. “Did you ask Robin what tea I preferred?”

 

“I- uh-” She blushes. “Yes.”

 

“I thought you still had reservations about him.”

 

She bites her lip. “It’s not that.”

 

“It’s not?”

 

“There are rumours that he murdered a civilian.”

 

“I can assure you, he did not.”

 

“They said that he summoned lightning from the sky to kill someone who so much as bumped into him.”

 

Chrom stops sipping his tea. “Where did you hear that from?”

 

“A tavern in Ferox. I was surprised that the news travelled this fast.”

 

“In _Ferox?_ Grima’s Night was yesterday!”

 

“It was precisely that it was so unusual that I hurried back right away. I’d thought…”

 

“He didn’t kill anyone. There was an assassin, a Plegian, according to Robin, but he stopped him before he so much as touched me.”

 

“That’s the point. They’re saying that Plegia’s trying to wage war on Ylisse again.”

 

“I don’t believe it.”

 

“It’s what the people believe.”

 

Chrom squeezes his eyes shut and exhales in exasperation. Lucina looks away.

 

“…And they’re also saying that you’re being… led astray.”

 

“That’s nonsense.”

 

“I know, father. But I can’t possibly convince everyone I meet to think so.”

 

Chrom contemplates in silence. Lucina touches her own cup of tea gingerly as he clicks his own onto the plate.

 

“It would be best if we move on to a lighter topic.”

 

“Then, would you like to hear about my travels?”

 

“It’s been some time since you’ve returned, hasn’t it?”

 

“Well, you know about the ruins in Valm…”

 

-

 

Another hour into the night. Chrom can’t shake the feeling that something ominous is coming, somehow. He gives up on sleep at the second strike of the midnight bell and opens the windows before heading out for some fresh air

 

Robin beats him to it. Chrom finds him standing in the doorway mid-knock, sniffing as if he’d been crying earlier. He lets him in wordlessly and Robin asks.

 

“Who’s Emmeryn?”

 

-

 

Lucina still doesn’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Her sister leans over her bed and pokes her until she rolls over in annoyance.

 

“Go away, Morrigan.”

 

“I know you’re awake.”

 

“I’ve had a long day.”

 

“What did dad say to you?”

 

Always the observant sister. No use hiding it now, she thinks, as she opens her eyes to see her younger sibling sat on the opposite bed.

 

“He called me ‘Luci’.”

 

“Isn’t that what mom always called you?”

 

“Yeah. I think he remembers the times when we were still children.”

 

“Does that mean the Grima from our time is back?”

 

“…”

 

“Didn’t he kill him?”

 

Lucina sighs. “I don’t know. I think he’s merged with Grima in some way, but that’s only my hypothesis. Remember what father said were his last words? Maybe he had always been Grima’s heart, but had lost his memories. Maybe he was never ‘Robin’ in the first place.”

 

“I guess. But it really doesn’t matter, does it?”

 

“It doesn’t.” She yawns despite her reeling thoughts. “I just… can’t help but think that he’s the same person as the one who killed father.”

 

“Well, he’s not, and you should go to sleep.”

 

Lucina blinks. “You’re right.”

 

“Good night, sis.”

 

“Good night, Morrigan.”

 

-

 

The envoy comes a week later, donning Plegian colours to the hostility of the castle guards. Robin slices the wax open with a swift flick of his wrist and frowns.

 

“What does it say?

 

“To the Exalt of Ylisse, the queen would like an audience with your highness to discuss matters of union.” Robin translates flawlessly. “It would be our honour to receive you within the next week as our church will be preparing matters concerning our faith the following months. Et cetera, et cetera, in conclusion, please come to our country because we can’t be bothered to come here.”

 

“That’s quite some paraphrasing.”

 

“It’s too sudden. You’ll get assassinated again.”

 

“About that, I suppose I have been putting it off for several months now.”

 

“I don’t like the sound of it.”

 

“I don’t want to go either. They’ve been urging me for marriage ever since I came back. If I push it any further, our trade relations will sour.”

 

“Fine,” Robin relents, “but I’ll have to come with you.”

 

“Really?”

 

“I doubt a round of guards would be enough to stop an entire battalion. The least I can do is demolish a part of their castle to aid in your escape, or something.”

 

“Whoa, I don’t think they’d pull something as extreme as that.”

 

“Remember Gangrel?” He waggles the scroll at him. “Thought so.”

 

“Who’d run the country then?”

 

“If I assumed your role as Exalt, the country would riot.”

 

“Gods, I’ll have to hope the Council doesn’t pull anything stupid.”

 

“You’ll be gone for only three days. It’ll be fine.” No, Robin’s mind immediately says, it won’t. “Unless you get stuck there, which won’t happen.”

 

Unless he is really assassinated, is left unsaid. Robin is almost certain something will happen. Chrom seems reassured that Plegia bears no severe ill will. He’s fine with letting Chrom think that way, as long as he’s allowed by his side.

 

He’d kill whoever tried to hurt him, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i'm not the best in writing dialogue so i'll cut back on that later. gosh I'm so guilty for not updating I'm going to write at full speed now
> 
> thank you for being patient as always!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's lucina's birthday today! man i love her so much she could stick the parallel falchion through my heart and i'd die happy
> 
> also i arrive with the newest installment to my flaming pile of trash, and no it has nothing to do with lucina’s bday,

The sea is a complete mess.

 

Robin isn’t sure if Chrom can see it. It’s a vast blue along the coastline, boats and ships sitting on the still water surface as if the tub of blood right along the horizon isn’t slowly spreading to shore. He can faintly smell the copper stench of blood from the path by the seaside and the low thrum of magic resonating with his own.

 

He asks the mages in their guard about it, but they all respond that they can’t sense anything. Chrom points towards the jagged outline of an outlying island and tells him that it’s the remains of the fell dragon.

  
It feels a little strange, staring at your own corpse.

 

The road devolves into nothing but sand as they traverse across the desert. Robin is filled with a sense of homecoming as he dismounts and steps onto the bustling streets of the Plegian capital. The vibrant canopies of the shops flutter in the breeze, rugs and banners flying as a gust of dry wind blasts through the sand-coloured buildings.

 

Though not a halidom like Ylisse, it’s more religious in a sense. Robin finds churches worshipping Grimleal around every corner and passing civilians wear pendants bearing His eyes. They are wary of Chrom, of course, but Robin’s presence allows them access to overwhelming hospitality, provided he doesn’t remove his cloak or hood.

 

Once or twice they become curious and Robin doesn’t refuse the request to see what’s underneath his stuffy attire. His explanation is that he’s a distant relative to dragonkind, though each time the older housewives grin as though they know. Chrom complains that he’s being too conspicuous, but Robin continues blessing children when asked to.

 

They’ve been waiting for a thousand years. Why deny them the right?

 

He makes sure to tell them he’s not capable of giving protection or fortune like Naga. He is the dragon of destruction, and though created from Naga’s blood, he does not have Her power. They shake their head. They don’t worship him because he gives false hope to his followers, he is simply the embodiment of what is meant to be. A symbol of grim finality if he would. Robin had never thought he’d be sought after to look over the ashes of those passed away, but here he is anyways.

 

After the commotion Robin ducks away back into the main street, wincing as a horrific cry tears through the air. At the sound of a woman screaming for her child something inside of him breaks, and he raises his head to find a bloodied platform ringed with people, the executioner’s axe held high.

 

“Robin, are you okay?”

 

“I think,” he mumbles, sick to his stomach, “my mother was killed here.”

 

He can’t think straight. The churning nausea sets his vision awry as he clutches at Chrom’s arm, hearing nothing but his panicked breathing. It comes back to him in waves. He remembers the deadened thump of his mother’s head rolling onto the white surface and blood, blood everywhere, the numb, catatonic state he had been at that time.

 

“She was saying my name, Chrom. How could I have left her? How?”

 

He holds him as he shakes and trembles. “She would’ve wanted you to run.”

 

“She’s gone. She’s been gone for years. How did I forget? Why would I forget?”

 

“It wasn’t your fault. Validar- your father was a cruel man.”

 

“What about him?”

 

“He’s not coming back.”

 

Robin seems to find solace in those words, and falls silent. Chrom doesn’t let him around the townsfolk after that. The walk to the palace is a solemn one. Robin’s quiet storm of frustration and sorrow rolls off him as he enters the gates, letting himself be led to his rooms without uttering a single word.

 

The bed is extravagant. Gold-lined tapestries line the walls in a show of wealth, but Robin doesn’t care. He shuts his eyes and sleeps. He’s thankful that this time his dreams aren’t plagued with war but blissful darkness.

 

Wedged between shifting reality and wakefulness, Robin remembers Chrom’s soothing voice in astonishing clarity. There are hot tears running down his cheek as he cries his heart out into Chrom’s arms, an accumulation of his uncertainty towards both his future and past. He’s almost convinced it didn’t happen when he’s awoken by warm sunlight the next day.

 

His room is empty, packed with ornate furniture arranged in tasteful manner. Pleasant to admire, but ultimately useless. The only evidence he has of Chrom’s visit is how his covers bunch around him as if someone had tucked it around him after he fell asleep.

 

-

 

He spends the next morning exploring the outskirts of the Plegian palace. Chrom stands next to him as he kneels in mourning in front of the singular memorial erected in name of those who had fallen in the war. He runs his finger over the smooth stone and over the rigid font etched into it. Validar’s name isn’t on it, he realizes, but Aversa’s is. His recollection of her is fuzzy at best, but her wrathful death rattle will forever be seared into his memory.

 

He will never find his mother’s name anywhere but in the prison’s ledgers. Her love had been nothing but a fleeting promise in the war, but Robin promises the sighing breeze that he will live on for her.

 

-

 

Chrom hates how his arrival has become a spectacle for the Plegian court. The nobles all flock to him like bees to honey, the women hanging off him in their fancy dresses and the men bearing offers of trade and drink.

 

“You’ve gotten better at handling people,” Robin comments as Chrom politely declines an offer to champagne. The noblewoman pouts, wringing her hands to show off the bangles clinking upon her wrist and winks as she disappears into the crowd.

 

“A year of practice does wonders.”

 

It’s only a quarter of an hour into the banquet, yet Robin’s already getting death glares from all sorts of people, from the inheritors of small noble houses to the heads of trading guilds. He knows he’s getting in their way of currying favour from the exalt. He knows, and he makes an effort to twirl Chrom’s flute of champagne from his fingers, taking a large swill to the unbidden disgust of several young women in fancy dresses.

 

He’s going to be the gossip of the month, he reckons, as Chrom takes his hand at the first strum of the violin. The ballroom arranges itself around them and Chrom leads by holding Robin firmly on the waist, lips almost brushing. Robin struggles to keep up with his steps and grasps Chrom’s hand tightly in an attempt to keep his faltering dignity.

 

“I can’t dance, and you know this.” He grumbles.

 

“I’ll just have to teach you now.”

 

“They’re staring, you know.”

 

“Let them.”

 

If he were a noblewoman, he’d be swooning now. Chrom dances like he fights, with simmering fervour and practiced skill. His grip is strong when he nudges Robin off the right direction to his growing embarrassment.

 

He isn’t unused to dancing a woman’s part; he’s done it several times in taverns during the war, yet he stumbles in the elegant choreography of a ballroom waltz. Chrom seems to be enjoying himself though, so he allows himself to be swept off his feet.

 

A step back, a step forward. The music pauses in a short interlude and most noblewomen excuse themselves for another partner. Robin spies a richly dressed woman approaching Chrom and Chrom simply readjusts his hold on Robin’s waist as the music starts again.

 

Hold your head high, he murmurs as he tilts them both forward. Robin huffs and closes in the distance, forcing him to take a step back and spin him around, his robes the anomaly among hundreds of silken dresses. It inevitably comes to the point where the waltz ends and Robin mimics the women’s bow by putting his entire weight against Chrom’s and leaning into his racing heartbeat.

 

The heavy doors to the ballroom slowly swings open, and the trance breaks at the runner heralding her royal majesty’s entrance.

 

Robin feels Chrom tense besides him and steps aside for the queen to walk gracefully towards the exalt. Her attire demands attention, no matter the deep plunge of her neckline or the layers of sheer cloth embroidered and clasped with rings and tassels of gold. The lush black of her hair is braided and ran through with pins sculpted out of fine metal, embedded with gems the size of marbles.

 

A stab of jealousy spears itself into Robin’s chest as she proffers her hand and Chrom gets on a knee to press his lips against her gloved knuckles.

 

It’s common court courtesy. They came here with the prospects of marriage, and now Chrom is humouring her to the slow rhythm of the ballroom orchestra. The entire hall stays still as the two dance in perfect sync. There’s no tripping or unsteady stumbling, only a flawless execution of the waltz.

 

As the banquet unfolds the masses get seated to the tables, where servants come in holding plates of dainty servings. Robin endures the night with copious amounts of wine while watching Chrom exchange pleasantries with the queen. He knows better than to barge into conversation without asking, so he leaves once the meal has ended with a dip of his head to Chrom’s hesitation.

 

He wanders the gardens for a lack of anywhere to go. Finally outside, he shakes his wings free from his coat and unrolls the decorative wraps around his horns. The desert sky shows a magnificent streak of stars under a dearth of clouds.

 

Robin isn’t sure when it is that Chrom spots him, but he catches a glimpse of Chrom excusing himself to the queen on the veranda overlooking the garden and breaking into a run once he’s out of her sight. Robin frets a little as the queen also searches the garden curiously over the railing and he presses himself behind a column, just as Chrom emerges from the doors.

 

“Stop,” he says, right as Chrom is about to say something. “Her royal majesty is still upstairs. What did you say to her to let yourself off?”

 

“That it’s late?”

 

Robin sighs. “You should have seen her expression. Anyone can read you like a book.”

 

He shifts forward and strokes a thumb over Robin’s lips. “I’m not ashamed.”

 

“Are you planning to kiss me under the moonlight like some distraught maiden?”

 

“Why not?”

 

Robin frowns. “You’re drunk.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“You’re not usually this enthusiastic. Go make good on your innocent lie and sleep your drunkenness off.”

 

He starts walking towards the stairs to Chrom’s protest. He was under the impression that Chrom held his liquor well, but apparently he’d had a wine too many in his absence. Was the wine even this strong? The queen would be equally unimpressed if not more, and Robin already has a number of problems to tend to, one of which being the royal guards sleeping on duty outside Chrom’s room.

 

Should have brought Frederick over, he thinks as he dumps Chrom onto the bed and dangles a pay rise for the guards if they manage to stay awake the entire night.

 

He doesn’t sleep. He sits motionless at the desk, hearing the servants scuttle about the corridor and his heart leaping at every slight creak of a door opening. He’d hear if someone tries to barge into Chrom’s room by force. The windows are firmly locked and the guards should hear any small commotion inside. Chrom isn’t so far gone that he can’t defend himself against an assassination anyways.

 

Perhaps he is being too paranoid.

 

The moon is high in the sky when he hears footsteps that aren’t the servants’ approaching. A fistful of dark magic gathers at his disposal. It’s an entire company of fighters, some with armour but the majority is comprised of the telltale click of sorcerers’ boots. As they pass Chrom’s room, Robin stiffens and falls into a stance for combat. They’re coming for him.

 

They knock. They know he’s awake, alert and ready to send them to oblivion at any second. Then it hits him. He’d never caught the man who bumped into him during the festival.

 

He has no time to think as he opens the door warily, and sure enough, a mage clutching an unknown object greets him with a wry smile. He hisses as they try to grab at him and the chill of his concentrated power sets into the air.

 

“Where’s Chrom.”

 

“Safe,” the man replies. “But not if you don’t cooperate.”

 

Robin curses himself for not recognising the symptoms. It wasn’t the wine. In fact, they hid it with the wine, and Robin was too ignorant to see beyond Chrom’s seemingly inebriated state.

 

“It wasn’t the feast.”

 

“It wasn’t,” the mage agrees.

 

“The kiss to the queen’s hand,” he seethes. “You insufferable _worms_.”

 

-

 

Chrom jolts awake to a shiver down his spine. His mouth tastes like grime and slush. Everything around him moves like sludge. His head hurts, his arms ache, and he’s scrapped in several places.

 

He wonders why he was sleeping on cold, damp rock. The illusion of safety is broken as he strains against his shackles in the utter darkness. The drug in his system seems to be fading with time, and he continues to yank at the chains holding him captive. Something seems to nag at the back of his mind as he struggles in vain.

 

Robin. He has to find Robin.

 

A sliver of light blinds him momentarily and illuminates the front of the cell. A table is laid in front of him, just out of reach. He’s never seen the assortment of scalpels and clamps placed on the sturdy wood. He would prefer if he’d never get to see them again.

 

A masked man walks into the cell and sets a device similar to a telescope onto the table. The crystal lens is focused on Chrom and he fumbles with it, pausing only to tap on another device curled around his ear.

 

Chrom realizes everything too late. “Robin,” he yells desperately, as loud as his parched throat allows him to. “Go without me!”

 

The man forces Chrom’s shackled hands onto the table, strapping his fingers so that they spread apart on the hard wood. He stops after he’s done, as if waiting for orders.

 

The command comes soon enough. Try as he might, Chrom fails to suppress the bloodcurdling scream that follows the clean fall of the iron cleaver.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- my ankle hurts  
> \- my foot hurts  
> \- everything hurts, i'm going to sleep 
> 
> I'm sorry there's not much romance tbh im very bad at writing romance??? i can't seem to do those two justice,,,, help


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoa i rise to write a new chapter in less than 12 hours? am i dying? yes
> 
> also it is still Lucina's birthday in some countries so i dedicate the front half of the chapter to her. if you couldn't tell already I may or may not have a thing towards girls that could kill me in one hit

It’s a royal scandal.

 

Lucina snarls and slices through the soldiers that have come to seize her. Even in peace her sword has not dulled a single bit; she bites back as vicious as ever, the Parallel Falchion whirring bright arcs as she blocks and parries a blunt hit. The soles of her boots skid across the floor and she lowers her blade only when the last guard collapses to the floor.

 

She’d been right in carrying her sword around wherever she went. A loud boom resounds from the other end of the corridor where her brother resides and he emerges with a wild look in his eyes. Her shoulders sag with relief at the sight.

 

Morrigan clambers out of bed, rubbing the drowsiness from her face. “What’s happening?”

 

“An uprising. The council’s trying to take the throne to themselves.”

 

“Ehhhh?”

 

She hears more guards rushing up and clamps a hand over her sister’s mouth. “Shush. We have to leave.”

 

Another round of explosions echoes from the hallway. Lucina yanks out a Thoron from the bookshelf and thrusts it into Morrigan’s arms.

 

“This was papa’s. Do you know how to use it?”

 

“I do, but where are we going?”

 

“Outside the castle.” She kicks the windows open and carefully lowers herself onto the ledge. “Away from here.”

 

“Huh?” Morrigan scrambles after her. Lucina is already crouching over the roof and she hosts her up in one go, climbing down to find Morgan and direct him towards his twin sister. She instructs them to exit from one of the spires in the west wing.

 

“Aren’t you coming with us?”

 

“I’m the one they want. As far as they know only I have the Brand, and father named me his successor, so until I get captured, they most likely won’t come hounding after you.”

 

“But-”

 

“They’re here. Stay out of sight.”

 

Her words are final. She ducks back into the room just in time to narrowly avoid a spiked crossbow bolt. It shatters the glass and Lucina hears her siblings yelp above her. Before the archer can shout for reinforcements she twists her blade and slits his throat. He goes down without so much as a cry and she pilfers a helm and breastplate from one of the fallen soldiers.

 

It allows her to listen in on the idle chat of her pursuers. She gleans several things, one that they’ve been paid a heavy sum, and two being that she is wanted alive, most likely to be married to a particularly powerful council member so he can usurp the throne. A shame for such a beauty, one of them cackles unpleasantly, and those become his last words as Lucina splits his skull apart with a beautiful, clean cut.

 

Her other concern is for her father’s safety. She’s now certain that the guards that went with him were provided by the Council, meaning that he could very possibly be dead. But again, Robin did go with him, so she’s not exactly worried. If he had been somehow neutralised however…

 

No use in fretting about something she can’t control. She fights her way out of the castle grounds, paving a road of corpses behind her. Serves them right. Her blue hair is too recognisable in the city below so she opts to keep the helm on until she squirrels her way into the woods.

 

Upon delving into the forest depths, she slumps against a tree, bruised and battered. Dawn breaks behind her, casting light on the wounds littered across her arms and shoulders. She sends a prayer to Naga that the Morgans made it out of the castle too. Her sword slides onto the grass as she closes her eyes in tiredness.

 

It’s a little reminiscent of the day Grima rose to attack Ylisse. She decides not to dwell upon it and curls up in the shade. She’d deal with whatever comes after her nap.

 

At afternoon she slinks back into the city centre to the bellowing of the trumpets. Indeed, the entire Council is there murmuring among themselves.

 

The exalt is dead. Cue the gasps of shock. The royal bastard has fled the border. Lucina grinds her teeth at this. They proceed to talk about Chrom’s descent into madness prompted by his Plegian mistress and how he was ultimately seduced to bed and poisoned in his sleep.

 

Lucina scoffs and waits.

 

The announcement ends with the Coucil assuming full power of the country until the exalted bloodline is found again, which will be around a week later when they dye a village maiden’s hair blue and present her to the public. She will marry and consign her power to the Council, and the halidom will be no more.

 

It’s been days since her father had left the country. Lucina wanders the countryside in guise of a hooded traveller, listening to the royal guards make their rounds declaring his death. She can’t imagine what kind of hell her other father would rain upon them once they return.

 

If they return.

 

-

 

The next time Chrom eases back into consciousness, it’s from the prickling pain of the swollen lump of his severed finger. They’d cauterised the wound with crude hot tongs. It’s thankfully not on his dominant hand. At least they’ve left him the ability to eat with dignity.

 

A medic comes to check on him every so often. The meals come at irregular intervals to keep him from guessing the time. It may have been days. Weeks. He doesn’t know. His thoughts are punctuated with worry about his country and family, but he can’t tell if he’s dreaming or not. The darkness is the same, no matter night or day.

 

-

 

Robin lays in his chambers for a lack of anything to do. He doesn’t want to touch anything in this filthy place. They’ve supplied him with books, pen and paper, as well as rich food, provided that he doesn’t leave the room.

 

The shiny bangles on his wrists chafe at his skin. The thing is made entirely of an unknown substance with no seams to speak of. The mage that put it on him had melded it shut using actual molten metal at the risk of burning Robin’s skin. It’s quite heavy for something so small.

 

They’ve also bound his ankles with the same shackles. His flight feathers are all capped to his discomfort. The room itself is hexed heavily. There are guards everywhere. Every time a serving boy asks if there is anything he needs he doesn’t move from his bored perch and answers.

 

“Let me see Chrom.”

 

He can guess what’s going on without being told. The Council had most probably been in cahoots with the Plegian court since Chrom left for war. They’d never expected him to survive. A deep-rooted evil he had never had the chance to sniff out.

 

His room has a magnificent view stretching beyond the desert and to the sea. It’s spacious enough for him to spread his wings without them touching the walls. He observes as time slowly crawls by, morning dousing into night and night seeping back into day. It gives him a sense of déjà vu, like a distant memory, from long ago.

 

At the end of the week Robin finally, finally hears the glorious tap-tapping of his escort down the corridor. He dusts himself off and allows his hands to be bound to his back with yet another magic-imbued contraption.

 

“So Ylisse has upheld their end of their bargain.”

 

“They have indeed.”

 

“I have but one request.”

 

“The exalt is waiting.”

 

Robin closes his eyes. “Good.”

 

-

 

Chrom thinks he is dreaming when light floods his vision. His limbs don’t obey his command when he forces himself to move. All he can muster is his full attention towards the newcomer in the cell.

 

His hearing works fine. He’s not hallucinating. It’s Robin, in the flesh, muttering Plegian to the people next to him. He manages to crack an eye open and flinches at what he sees. Robin is bound in chains and fetters like a prisoner sent to death. He looks unbothered by his shackles, and as soon as the doors open fully he stumbles through.

 

Chrom is unable to speak nor move. They must have drugged him before Robin’s visit, for just the act of focusing his eyesight proves a difficulty. Robin drops to his knees in front of him.

 

“It’ll be over soon,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

 

Robin’s mouth is as soft as he remembers, pressed against Chrom’s as he brings himself into a slow, one-sided kiss. It’s warm, and the taste of sweet honey and smoke lingers on his tongue.

 

“Wait for me, okay?”

 

Chrom sees it now. His eyes are the colour of blood, hard with determination, bright as a dying star. He gets on one knee, stands, and turns to leave.

 

Chrom desperately wants to lunge after him. Shout his name. Anything. There is something ancient in Robin’s gaze that he recognises. It’s been there all along, and he was a fool not to realize it sooner.

 

He can only watch helplessly as the window of light narrows to a null. Is this what Lucina had felt decades ago, he wonders, on that fateful day?

 

-

 

The road that travels to the sea is a winding one. Robin surveys the unchanging scenery in his carriage with disinterest. There is nothing but sand dunes and quaint villages, then there is a beach with a ship docked at a small harbour. He boards it and leans on the stern as the waves break at the hull.

 

The waters reek of death and decay. The stench intensifies as they pass the dingy island that was once Grima’s corpse, but nobody seems to register the smell except Robin himself. They’ve speared the body with columns of summoning seals, and from the wounds ancient magic is bubbling out into the sea. A plague upon the land indeed.

 

They dock under the oppressive impression of a tower, _the Dragon’s Table_ , Robin vaguely remembers, and lead him up the unending stairs. Everything has been prepared perfectly, from the Emblem sitting at the altar to the immaculate recreation of the broken columns.

 

“Go on.”

 

Robin halts behind the looming archway. “Must I?”

 

“If you don’t want your beloved exalt to lose another finger.”

 

He sighs and enters the hall. The gems in the Emblem react to his presence by glowing faintly. He rolls his shoulders and feels his joints pop as he stretches.

 

“Lord Grima, before you proceed, we would like you to form a covenant between our people and your Holiness.”

 

“And if I don’t, you’ll hurt Chrom in your own disgusting, sadistic way.”

 

“If you want to phrase it like that, precisely.”

 

“Like the stories of old, huh,” he muses. “I’m no Naga, you know,”

 

“We know for a fact that you are capable of doing so.”

 

“Yes, yes, you don’t want me to do anything rash after all the preparations you’ve been through. I understand.”

 

The mage approaches. “Then allow us to undo your inhibitors.”

 

“No need.” The corners of his lips tug into a smile. “I’ll do it myself.”

 

The shackles shatter. The broken fragments fall onto the floor, clattering everywhere. The church is stunned into silence. Robin rubs his wrists consciously and unfurls his wings to their full extent, shaking the ruined feathers out of them.

 

“Did you all actually think that was enough to restrain me?”

 

“Enough.” One of them has the gall to say. “The exalt is still being held hostage.”

 

Robin grins nastily. “Not if I kill you all first.”

 

“We still-”

 

Someone whispers something into the sorcerer’s ear and he goes deathly pale. Robin strides towards the Emblem and lifts it from the altar.

 

“Bringing me to him was a mistake. I’d never know where to curse if not for you.”

 

The clouds outside the windows gather and sink. Thunder rumbles throughout the stratum. Robin laughs and hovers his hand over the thrumming shield.

 

“Don’t worry. I’ll save the best for last.”

 

-

 

 

It has been a full week. Lucina has yet to find her siblings.

 

The only logical conclusion is that either they have left Ylisse, or they have… perished. The latter is unpleasant to think about. Lucina refuses to believe it. She’s combed through the whole country, snuck into the prisons and asked for a pair of twins in every village she’s been in. Or, rather, they are expertly good at hiding out in the forest, which they are not, and Lucina is absolutely certain that they cannot last a day in the wild.

 

She’s witnessed the false version of herself wedded to the slimy Council chief. The girl doesn’t even have blue eyes. She’s a little offended that the civilians still cheer for them despite the obvious nervousness the girl has when handling the imitation of Chrom’s Falchion.  

 

The halidom is coming to an end. Gods, she was hoping that it wouldn’t come to blows, but if circumstance demanded it, then she would gladly raise a rebellion, or raze the Council down herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes it's 2 am i'm going to die of sleep deprivation one day


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for how slow this took me! it's time for chrom to chromfront his murder dragon
> 
> thank you everyone who got super excited for this chapter! i hope i've delivered asdfdhlfkjahsld

Chrom tugs and strains against his shackles until his wrists are rubbed raw and his body feels like it’s on fire. He calls for the guards in the darkness, but nobody comes. It’s eerily quiet.

 

The palace rumbles above him. He can hear nothing but the constant dripping of water several cells from his own. The muffled sound of something collapsing echoes around the empty hallway. Only the prison remains unscathed.

 

Even with his terrible aptitude in magic, the thick energy in the air is palpable. He can even grasp some of it in his hand and feel it slither away like slime. A layer of mana hugs the floor as the spell continues to shield the place from any harm. It’s no doubt Robin’s work. The guards are probably all unconscious or dead.

 

His struggle is in vain. At last he stops pulling on the chains and sits on the floor in defeat. He’d have to try again when he regains his strength.

 

Another explosion ricochets down the corridor. This time it’s a lot closer. Chrom edges towards the bars of his cell curiously as several more ram forcefully into the gates, not making a single dent.

 

Silence.

 

He waits with baited breath as metal scrapes against metal beyond the prison boundaries. The lock clicks. The hinges groan. The reassuring brilliance of firelight creeps along the walls.

 

“Whoa. It reeks of dad’s magic.”

 

“Oh. No wonder.”

 

It takes them a few seconds to register the sight. Morgan pops over the cell and snaps his Rexcalibur open.

 

“Father, stay back.”

 

Chrom barely has the time to flatten himself against the wall as a barrage of air forces the bars to bend aside. Morrigan immediately rushes in to pry his shackles open with her sword, to which Chrom asks her to hand it over so he can strike it open in one swift blow.

 

“How did you two get here?”

 

“Well, we actually hung around the palace for a while. It wasn’t until the guards started to mysteriously keel over that we could snoop in.”

 

Morrigan looks over her shoulder. “You really should go now.”  


“Why? What’s happening?”

 

“You should see for yourself.”

 

She leads him out into the open. Chrom stumbles out into the sunlight in a daze. His feet are aching, and his arms are killing him. He has to stand still for a while to tune his vision to normal.

 

If he was pondering what there was no tearful reunion between his children, at least his questions are answered now. The front of the palace has been reduced to rubble. A few of the wrecked boulders are charred by Morgan’s spells. The overhanging spires all lay crumbled atop the caved-in rooms of the palace, its delicate glory dashed into coarse dust.

 

Below, to the city, is utter chaos. The sewers have all burst and flooded into the streets. Fires are erupting from house to house. Ashen smoke snakes into the air. People are frantically searching for safety and rapidly carried off by the rising flood of water. The sky is a vast azure, though in the distance, thunder rolls from a dark sinkhole of clouds.

 

“Your hand…”

 

“This?” Chrom flexes his remaining fingers and lets out a dry laugh. “Lucina is going to be so mad at me.”

 

Morgan whispers something into his sister’s ear and she nods, whistling. Chrom licks his parched lips tentatively as a pegasus trots into view, ears flicking. It’s a black mare, mounted with the simplest of saddles and cloths, bred especially for battle.

 

He hasn’t ridden one of these before, but he’ll take what he gets. As he flings himself over the saddle, his daughter procures something strapped beneath her coat.

 

“We found it in the guardhouse. Take this, you’ll need it.”

 

Falchion gleams as he turns the blade, silver and gold. Its weight, normally a comfort, has become foreboding in his hands. He hesitates before sheathing it completely. His children look away.

 

“Father, if you can help it…”

 

“I’ll be back. Try not to get caught in trouble.”

 

He kicks in the stirrups and the pegasus takes off in a gallop. It leaps off the ground at the last possible moment, gravity forcing Chrom to duck and brace himself as it soars into the air, wings beating to glide over the cumulating clumps of foul-smelling smoke. The land beneath him shrinks until the ruined palace becomes nothing but a speck in the endless stretch of desert.

 

He has but one destination. The spreading column of darkness dragging in the clouds, obscuring the horizon. He’s headed to the gaping maws of death itself.

 

-

 

The tide has receded. It stinks of rot and decay. Chrom can see the clear distinction between the sun-baked sands and the pearl white of the once-underwater rock. The corpses of fish and other animals bleed into both, dyeing them splotches of red and atop, the baleful white of their exposed bellies.

 

His mount bucks under him and he urges it on, into the storm. It’s overcast, like the day he’d found Robin, asleep and waiting. By the coast the clouds are silver-rimmed, the sea turbulent and a dull shade of dirty navy. A leaden fog hovers over the sea surface.

 

As he rides further into the depths, it quickly shifts from a brimming rainfall to a raging rainstorm. There is no illumination save for the rare flash of lightning and the red light that flits through the occasional break in the heavy clouds. The gales are vengeful. Unrelenting. The sea foams below him, crashing onto jutting rocks and swallowing the remnants of several islands.

 

Cold rain sifts into freezing sleet. He’s soaked to the bone. The skies threaten to fall any minute, crushing him into the frothing blackness.

 

Somewhere, from Grima’s fallen self, he hears a low, bellowing moan.

 

The Dragon’s Table edges into sight, and he spies entire battalions of wyvern riders spiralling upwards like a cluster of moths to a flame, sucked into battle, vanishing into the fog. The clamour of the sea blots out his imaginings of the happenings above. He dares not speculate, for something in the tower cracks and a slice what seems to be a roof drops through the clouds and slides into the the sea.

 

He has to hurry. He must. As soon as he lands grudgingly, the pegasus refusing to budge even with his insistent goading, he sprints into the rotting entrance. He’s still shivering from the cold rain but he’s soon dry from the exertion. It’s completely silent from where he is, punctuated by the sound of the buffering storm outside. There’s no sign of fighting anywhere above him.

 

The trek upwards is solemn. His thighs ache from the heavy riding and his arms throb from hauling himself up the stairs. He continues to plod on regardless, pausing only to stare out of a pinprick window, another torn-off structure cast into the swirling nothingness.

 

He sets jaw in grim determination and heaves himself onto the final platform.

 

For a moment he thinks he’s too late. The looming hallway is split into two as if someone had bitten an axe through a piece of hard wood. Gingerly, he steps over the gaping fault, mindful of the sharp glass littered over the marred floor.

 

Despite the damage, the doors stay untouched. The stained glass is as smooth as he had last seen it, not a blemish on its elegant depiction of the fell dragon, coiled around the Table, overseeing the end of the world.

 

Chrom gives the handles a nudge, and swiftly, they swing open on smooth hinges.

 

Twitching bodies everywhere. Piles and piles of golden armour dipped in cold rain and diluted blood. Weapons discarded in another heap, swords and spears alike, tomes ruined by the damp.

 

The roof has caved in. Everything is lit in a smooth, white radiance, reflecting off the glint of frost on fractured archways, the slick surface of blackened walls.

 

And at the centre of it all, lifting his gaze from the destruction, is Robin.

 

He is unspoiled by battle. His snowy hair ruffles in the changing wind, coat fluttering around his feet.

 

There is something that Chrom cannot understand, something about his blood-red stare that captivates him. His movements are graceful. Alluring. The way time becomes melted wax in his presence, the lilt of his voice more melodious than a churchbell’s chime.

 

He is the epitome of ruination. All that he touches crumbles into dust. Only now does it shake Chrom to the core how he could have so easily belonged to one of the stiffening mounds lying by his feet. It is power far beyond the awakening of the fell dragon.

 

He has witnessed the true anger of a god.

 

And on cue, Robin turns, and the illusion falters. The roar of the storm pulses below the Table.

 

“…Chrom?”

 

The stalking menace in the air drops abruptly. His shoulders pull back, the clouded fury in his eyes vanishes at the first hint of recognition.

 

“—What are you doing here?”

 

Chrom picks his way over. He’s careful not to move anything on the ground.

 

“I could ask you the same.”

 

Robin simply slouches forward in vague delight and he hops down from the black stone. His boots stir ripples in the crystalline puddles that have formed from the rain.

 

“I’d wanted to bring you here anyways,” he states, pleased. “Look.”

 

He beckons at Chrom, waves at an opening between two demolished pillars. As he does, the pilasters crack and disintegrate, the clouds dissipate at his command, until they’re left with an impressive view of the murky ocean.

 

The depths have engulfed the each and every island. Chrom can’t even make out the horizon; it’s melded with the unending darkness. The shore seems so far away now.

 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Robin hums as he leans over the remaining stretch of railing. “So fragile. So delicate. I could crush it into nothing in seconds. All the pain in this world. All the suffering.”

 

“Robin…”

 

He looks wistfully into the sea. “If I destroy it all… then nothing will hurt you ever again.”

 

“It doesn’t have to end like this.”

 

Robin exhales. His breath forms a wisp of fog in the chill, gone in the breeze.  

 

“Does it? I don’t know anymore. Year after year, century after century, it’s always been the same.”

 

He brings himself near, a hand slipping by Chrom’s belt and resting on the hilt of his sword. His hand atop the worn pommel, he smiles sadly as Chrom touches the sheath, conscious.

 

“Even now, my story comes full circle.”

 

“I’d never—”

 

“Go on. I won’t stop you.”

 

“Robin,” Chrom murmurs, cradling his soft cheeks with frostbitten hands. “You’re hurt. You’re in pain.”

 

Robin purrs into his touch.

 

“So warm…”

 

He closes his eyes and cups Chrom’s hands into his own.

 

“—I wish I could stay like this, forever.”

 

Chrom draws him closer. Robin shivers.

 

“It’s so cold.”

 

His skin is feverish. He’s burning up.

 

“I’m so tired, Chrom. When will it ever end?”

 

“It’s over now. You don’t have to fight anymore.”

 

He clutches at Chrom tightly, forehead tipped against his chest as he begins to cry, quietly.

 

“I don’t want to lose you.”

 

Chrom threads his fingers through Robin’s hair and holds him soothingly.

 

“They can’t- they can’t take you away from me, not like this. After everything I’ve done.”

 

“Shh. You can rest now.”

 

“I…”

 

“Sleep.”

 

“…Will you be there when I wake up?”

 

“Yes. Always.”

 

He staggers, whimpers one last time, and collapses into Chrom’s arms. His wings droop lifelessly behind him and Chrom struggles to carry him in bridal manner. Nuzzled into his breast, he looks nothing akin to the fallen deity slashed over the stained glass windows.

 

Outside, the storm plods on, but its bite is lost to the heat pressed against Chrom’s heartbeat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (loud, internal screaming) AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
> 
> alternate very sad universe that my heart cannot bear to write: robin never wakes up and sleeps for a thousand years, then he wakes up to realize that chrom died waiting for him. the world has progressed to a point where he can no longer find the exalted bloodline and all that remains are his memories and oral records of the exalt who spent his whole life waiting for his lover who to this day, slumbers unknowing of his pain
> 
> good night everyone I'm going to enter into a 3000 year nap like tiki


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW SO LATE, I AM SORRY, IT'S BEEN A WEEK + 1 DAY
> 
> AAAAAAAAA

A streak of heat stirs Robin from sleep. He finds himself staring at a plaster ceiling void of anything, the only breeze seeming to come from the gap between half-opened windows. Dust floats gently onto the floor. His body feels numb and stiff.

 

Not willing to get up from bed yet, he lays on his back, head and horns sinking into the comfortable fluff of his pillow, surveying his surroundings out of his periphery. Recognition is slow in the first instances of wakefulness. It feels familiar. Like home.

 

A loud crash drives him out of lazy stupor and he cringes, blood rushing into his limbs as he jolts to his side. He peers over the bed and sees a neat bedside drawer, an overturned stool, and sprawled on the floor, Chrom groaning as he clutches his head and rolls aside.

 

He doesn’t get up. Chrom’s eyes droop sleepily and then squeeze shut as he decides to shift into a better position to doze off again, away from the blade of sunlight forcing its way through the curtains. His blue hair falls on his forehead, and it’s obvious he hasn’t cut it in a week or two.

 

He stands after a minute. As his vision focuses, Robin’s lips quirk into a smile and he pulls himself up into an easy perch.

 

“There are better places to take a nap than on the ground, you know.”

 

“Hardly appropriate.” Chrom returns, sitting. “I wasn’t taking a nap, for one.”

 

He stands. His stance is weary, deprived of sleep and rest. The bags under his eyes speak of insomnia from constant worry. Robin’s gaze trails to his left hand, where an ugly stump in place of his pinkie acts as a reminder of the past.

 

“Then what were you doing?”

 

“Waiting for you.”

 

Robin takes Chrom’s hand, hesitant. It’s rough to the touch as he runs his fingers over the toughened dip of his palm, worn away by decades of wielding a sword. Lowering his gaze, he brushes his lips against the old wound.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Chrom nudges at him.

 

“For what?”

 

“For having the wrong blood, being the wrong dragon.”

 

“That’s ridiculous.”

 

“And not just this.”

 

Robin swallows.

 

“–I’ve done something horrible.”

 

There it is again. Chrom’s seen it so many times during the war, it kills him to see it in times of peace. Remorse draws itself deep in the furrow of Robin’s brows and the tight clasp of his fists. Guilt about things he hadn’t been able to control, the frustrated blame that he puts on himself whenever things go wrong, seeping into sleepless nights while he works himself to exhaustion.

 

Especially now. When the destruction had been wrought by his own hands, after he’d swore never to succumb to the lurking madness that came with his ancient power.

 

It’s not your fault, Chrom wants to say. It’s at the tip of his tongue but he can’t bring himself to further Robin’s bitter brooding. He knows that it won’t matter to him. It will always be by his own magic that broke the sky and raised the sea.

 

And unlike Chrom, he has nowhere to beg forgiveness from. His wings will always be a dull weight upon his shoulders and a leaden reminder of his past.

 

“There’s nothing that can’t change.” Chrom says gently. “You know that better than anyone.”

 

Robin stays silent.

 

“I wonder.”

 

-

 

He listens to Chrom talk about the civil war. It’s unimaginable how Lucina managed to rally half the country against the council in the span of days, uniting scattered bands of beaten-upon peasants to topple the hierarchy, then settling the angry nobles with the promise of prospective and land.

 

The colours of exalt suits her well, Robin comments as she comes visit him. A faint dusting of pink colours her cheeks at the compliment. Her furs hang about her shoulders and sweep the floor in regal manner as she sets her armour aside to lean comfortably onto one of the chairs.

 

The air between them is tense. She has not forgotten, and Robin now remembers. His eyes are still the same blood red as before. They both know it will never shift back to the pale grey of the past. He bows his head.

 

“I cannot ask for forgiveness, but know that I am sorry.”

 

She flinches as if stung. Falchion is a temptation that she resists with all of her will. It would kill him in a swift blow. Robin seems to acknowledge this with a faint smile.

 

The hilt slips from her fingers as she draws it to not even a third of its length. It snaps back into its sheathe by the pull of gravity and remains.

 

She sighs. “I can’t.”

 

Of course. She’s never been able to, anyways. Not when Robin looks at her with the same eyes as her mother’s, and calls her by the same name.

 

“How much my daughter has grown,” he murmurs. “I can barely recognise you now.”

 

Perhaps it is because she cannot remember the peace of her childhood. It was always Chrom that she had revered in times of war but not Robin, who had disappeared before Grima rose from slumber. She had never considered much about her mother, but now guilt wrenches at her conscience now that she’s reunited with her– father, she reminds herself, once again.

 

She finds herself licking her lips in nervousness faced with Robin’s knowing gaze. There seems to be nothing he doesn’t know about her, down what she’s thinking at the moment. When she asks why, Robin simply guffaws and smiles.

 

He did raise her himself, after all.

 

Later, as Chrom catches Robin referencing the time Lucina broke her first training sword over a sparring session with her father, he expresses his indignation at how come only Robin gets to remember their children.

 

“You haven’t missed out much. Except having three toddlers vomit on you after their meals. I’m sure at least one of the Shepherds will welcome your help.” Robin tilts his head in mock thought. “Oh. And Lucina’s edgy teenage phase. It _is_ pretty funny, maybe I’ll–”

 

Lucina screams down the corridor, her voice shaky with embarrassment.

 

“I swear to Naga, if you tell father, I’ll kill you.”

 

Robin laughs. “Guess my lips are sealed.”

 

To Chrom’s immense amusement, he chronicles Lucina’s friendship with Owain out of earshot anyways.

 

-

 

It is when Robin accompanies Chrom to heal another patch of ruined land that the first stone hurtles in his path and strikes him in the head. He falters in neutralising his own magic, grunts in pain and bars Chrom from seeking out the assailant.

 

They have a right, Robin says. Who knows how many I’ve starved to death?

 

He continues to kneel against Chrom’s protests. It’s his duty, Robin insists. They sneer, raising their fists angrily as some throw sticks and rocks at him while most call him names. They aren’t wrong. There’s no denying that he’s the one who placed the blight upon their land.

 

He only halts at the screech of _succubus_. The townspeople don’t stop there. Witch. Plegian spy. Fox-spawn. Quietly, he finishes up with his work and nods at Chrom to leave, ducking past the enraged squalling of widows who have lost their husbands to the blight and men who have lost entire limbs, rotted off by Grima’s cursed magic. As Chrom reaches out to him, he shakes his head and mounts his horse by himself, careful to ride behind Chrom the entire time.

 

They don’t talk about it. But at night, Chrom peers through a crack in Robin’s door and sees him hissing as he nurses a bleeding wound beneath his horns. His arms are littered with cuts and bruises that blossom into a myriad of purples. The rumpled bandages on the floor are all stained with blood.

 

Chrom still knocks despite what he’s seen. Robin drops the roll of cotton onto the floor and scrabbles to return it.

 

His voice is muffled.  “Not now, Chrom.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“It’s nothing you should bother yourself with.”

 

Chrom fights over himself whether to force his way inside. In the end, he leaves Robin to his privacy. He loses sleep over the notion that Robin is next door dressing his own wounds in solitude, but there are certain boundaries he knows he shouldn’t cross. He does, in the morning, leave Robin’s breakfast outside his door so he won’t need to limp downstairs and risk their children finding out.

 

They find out anyways. As the Morgans bicker over who gets the last sausages Lucina bites her fork absentmindedly and asks if Robin had left Ylisstol yesterday. The implications aren’t lost on her after travelling around Ylisse for years.

 

Yet Robin insists on continuing with the trips until the land is completely healed. The insults and stoning don’t stop. Until Chrom confronts him about it, he admits that it’s not as bad as it was millennia ago.

 

People have changed. People will change. Robin can hardly believe the words he’s saying. Chrom appears surprised to hear him.

 

“It’s your damn influence.” He retorts. “What?”

 

“Nothing,” Chrom replies. _Just not expecting to hear this from someone who tried to destroy the world two weeks ago._

 

-

 

Lucina groans at her desk, buried under paperwork.

 

Robin clicks his tongue, plucking the quill from her hands and narrowly sliding the inkwell away from her elbow to avoid a catastrophe. He sweeps a clearing out from the pile of parchment and lays his stack of neatly organised documents next to her.

 

“Having fun?”

 

She grumbles something under her breath as she pushes off from the table. They’re labelled immaculately, notated so that she’ll have minimal confusion when setting them alongside her growing pile of unsigned papers. Not that she’ll have time to file through them by the looks of it.

 

He shoos her away to open the windows, take a breather, whatever, as he sorts her impossible mess into a somewhat comprehensible system. She’s starting off significantly better than Chrom did, which he doesn’t tell her to suppress her ego, but it’s still a heap of things she would prefer read and another heap she would prefer not to.

 

Lucina watches her father work with frightening efficiency in the background. It’s still jarring to see her parents so young while she herself is reaching the start of adulthood. They can’t be more than a decade older than her. Well, technically, Robin is thousands of years old, but she’s not going to go over what that could mean.

 

She sees him hover over a particular report, pausing to scan through its contents. As she peers over his shoulder to glance at what he’s reading she recognises it as a summary of Plegia’s conditions.

 

He makes no comment on how Plegia’s economy is in shambles or how close it is to a military uprising now that the royal army has been demolished thanks to his effort. It becomes another list of numbers that he slips between oil taxes and fishing policies, indifferent from the rest of Ylisse’s problems.

 

“About Plegia…”

 

Robin gathers the last of his notes in a neat pile. “It’s not your place to deal with another country’s crisis when your own is in political turmoil.”

 

“But–!”

 

He stares her down with a steely glare. “ _As exalt_ , however temporary.”

 

She doesn’t understand how he can be so harsh on himself, on his home country. He’s always been this way, always prioritising responsibility over his emotions, save for the one time he lost control…

 

Realization dawns upon her. The stern reprimanding and steady tone of voice are all a farce. He does what he must to steer Lucina in the right path, but despite what he wants others to think, he is still only human, thrust upon the duties and memories of a god.

 

Always so brave. So selfless. She understands now why her father had fallen for Robin in the first place. A rare talent to be as capable on the battlefield and in court, Chrom had told her during Robin’s absence. She had initially thought Robin undeserving of his love, but now, she’s thinks it might perhaps be the reverse.  

 

She’s proud to be their daughter.

 

-

 

Chrom finds Robin staring into the impressive stretch of evening, a breeze singing in the summer air, woven into his silken feathers and snowy white hair.

 

“Do you think it’s wrong for me to seek atonement?”

 

The dying embers of sunlight cast his face in soft luminance. The balcony feels empty, devoid of people save for the both of them.

 

“Why?”

 

“It’s what I must do. But do I deserve to be forgiven?”

 

“Everyone deserves a chance.”

 

His smile is warm. “I’m glad you think so.”

 

“Then what are you going to do from now?”

 

“I’m not sure,” he says, leaning further out. “Go back to Plegia, I suppose. Make sure it’s not run by some power hungry fool. Give the rebellion a push so they can set up a functional democracy. Stop them from trying to revive another divine dragon.”

 

“That’s quite the daunting goal.”

 

“To be honest, I feel the same.”

 

“I’m sure you can do it.”

 

“Don’t be so confident in me. I might start another war again.”

 

“You won’t.”

 

Robin sighs. “Thank you.”

 

 _Stay,_ Chrom thinks to himself. He doesn’t say it.

 

They both watch as the sun lowers itself into the range of mountains in the distance. The sky wobbles from blue to pink to black, the stars surfacing in the inky canvas of night. Robin looks so content without the glory of battle lighting his fingertips, compared with the ruthless tactician in war with his shoulders drawn tense, wound up to spring at any moment.

 

Chrom is happy for him, truly. Though it feels off, somehow, that he’s slipping from his grasp just as he’s back in his arms again.

 

-

 

Everything is arranged meticulously. Robin steps onto the carriage with nothing but his coat and a stack of books pilfered from his bookshelf. He has no belongings of his own to speak of.

 

Before he closes the door behind him, he turns to the castle one last time. The dirt path is still as empty as it was before.

 

He’s a fool for waiting. It’s midday and obviously Chrom has his work to tend to, or he’s in a meeting with the newly formed council. Either way, the Morgans and Lucina have bidden their farewells, and he’s left each of them lengthy lectures until they begged him to stop. His job in Ylisse is done. There’s nothing holding him back.

 

So why is it so hard to tear his eyes away from the castle gates?

 

He imagines Chrom calling his name, running up to him and saying his breathless farewells. There would be tears in his fanciful world, a passionate kiss if he’s lucky. Chrom would beg for him not to leave. He’d tell him no, it’s his duty.

 

What narcissistic fantasies. He should be ashamed for expecting anything at all. Chrom had already given his blessings to his success, so he shouldn’t demand anything further than this. It’s not like he’s never returning or anything.

 

“Robin.”

 

His voice. Chrom’s voice. It sounds so sweet to his ears, Robin doubts his hearing. Gods, he’s even having auditory hallucinations now.

 

“ _Robin._ ”

 

The sudden contact of skin on skin snaps him back to reality. He’s seeing blue, huffing from a power sprint from gods-know-where, gripping onto his hand as if it were an anchor to shore

 

“You’re real.” Robin states, dumbfounded.

 

“Yeah,” Chrom gasps, still recovering from his short marathon from the castle. “I was making… preparations.”

 

“Can’t bear the thought of me leaving?” He teases. “I’m not going to die, you know.”

 

“Well, there’s that.” Robin fights the blush that threatens to rise to his cheeks as Chrom continues. “And I… I know this is sudden, but I’d like to come with you.”

 

“…What?”

 

“You would’ve definitely shot me down if I proposed this any earlier, so I thought… I’d take my chances at the last minute.” He notices Robin raising an unconvinced eyebrow. “Okay, okay, before you yell at me for being rash, Lucina’s the exalt. I can’t just seize the title after she rallied the people under her name. She’s much more ready to take the throne than I ever was and will be. The citizens love her. She makes for a great queen.”

 

“And your argument is?”

 

“I won’t be needed in Ylisstol anytime soon.” His grip tightens. “I can be by your side.”

 

“By the love of Naga, you are the most impossibly impulsive being I have ever met in my three thousand years of existence.”

 

“So is that a yes or no?”

 

He blinks. “Did you really have to ask?”

 

Robin’s mind blanks as Chrom grins and drags him down to crush their lips together. It’s short, fierce and overfilling with pleased joy. He pulls him closer, cradling him to his breast.

 

“Welcome back. It’s over now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa thank you for reading till the end! gosh i don't know what i'd do without you all please take both my kidneys and my liver i won't need it and also all my rotted teeth from your sweet comments. Seriously.)
> 
> i don't know how to dialogue so forgive me
> 
> nope it hasn't (truly) ended yet i have yet to claim my dessert for this au. what is it you may ask? my favorite thing to write, which is...


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